In Stasis
by crypticnotions
Summary: Stasis: "A suspension of the passage of time, whether by biological means...or physical means."


Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Person of Interest characters. I dig them a lot though. I got all the information for the symbols of flag folding from the American Legion. Please check out their site for more information. I took some liberties with some of the meanings, but I hope they feel right to you as you read them. I bolded the parts I focused on most.

I am a tense changer. I originally wrote half of this in present tense because I was going to do something else, but I tried to convert it all to (mostly) past. Tell me if you see any really messed up tense changes.

The definition for Stasis (fiction) from the story summary is used from Wikipedia's entry on Stasis in fiction, particularly science fiction.

Warning: Character death.

* * *

**First: "Symbol of Life"**

"You take my breath away."

Joss said that to him once. It was not her being coy, or sweet or a compliment. The words were said to him when they were forced undercover as two chefs from an upscale restaurant. One mistake landed them in an odd chamber only a few steps away from being hermetically sealed, hoping that Finch and Fusco found them before they ran out of air. The words sounded sarcastic and bitter even while she mustered up a smile. He wanted to laugh. Her words and tone summed up their entire relationship.

Instead, he said, "I try."

* * *

**Second: "Symbol for our belief in eternal life"**

"You're not immortal, you know."

"I know, Carter," he growled. He had not come to her for a lecture.

She pressed her hand hard against his wound at his sharp words, which caused him to hiss in pain. The gash running across his left ribs throbbed and reminded him of his close call.

"He had an axe, John. An axe. What made you take him on? Fusco and I were right around the corner."

She pressed a fresh bandage to his now clean wound.

Lifting his arm ached. He shrugged. The truth was he needed to live a little dangerously. Sometimes, it was the only thing that reminded him that he was alive. That and the stern look that Carter was giving him.

* * *

**Third: "Made in honor and remembrance of the veteran departing our ranks, and who gave a portion of his or her life for the defense of our country to attain peace throughout the world."**

"You have to forgive yourself."

They were sitting in the cubbyhole of a grimy, dimly lit bar sipping on beer. It was their first time meeting alone since that whole Stanton, Snow, bomb, and hurricane period of separation.

She looked at him, puzzled.

"For the war. For Yusef. For the man you shot. You can't hold it in."

"John…"

He raised his hand from his warm beer can to halt her words.

"I know I haven't done a great job of forgiving myself for things I can't change, but that's why you need to."

He reached over and squeezed her hand.

"Don't let it eat at you."

And then they both knew he wasn't just talking about the war anymore.

* * *

**Fourth: "Represents our weaker nature**; as American citizens trusting in God, it is to Him we turn in times of peace, as well as in times of war, for His divine guidance."

"So that's bad?"

John was talking to Nila Parsons, their latest number, and a non-fiction writer, whose specialty was on the topic of race.

"Very," she answered. "While White women predominately fight the trope of being weak, Black women fight the trope of being inherently strong. It's not that we are not strong, but that we never get to express ourselves when we are weak or struggling. It's never allowed to be in our deck of cards as human beings." She flung her long braids over one shoulder.

"No one is just one thing," he said.

"Exactly! People want to be seen as people. Unfortunately, we are not there yet. In terms of education, incarceration and wealth, we have a ways to go before there is equality." Her arms moved in high arcs as she spoke.

While John admitted that he didn't agree with everything she said in her speech, neither could he claim to understand all of her personal life experiences, but he did understand why a group of neo-Nazis planned on killing her. Not only was Mrs. Parsons a confident, accomplished writer and professor, she hosted her own cable news television show on the weekends. She was getting her message out to the masses and that was dangerous to the people who hated her.

Later, after the case ended and Nila was off touring her next city, he left a copy of her book on Joss' doorstep. The pages were folded over from the sections he read. The chapter on "Dismantling the Strong Black Women Trope" was particularly creased.

* * *

**Fifth: "A tribute to our country, for in the words of Stephen Decatur, "Our country, in dealing with other countries, may she always be right, but it is still our country, right or wrong."**

Joss continued to surprise him. He found her one summer day in her kitchen, in a tank top, cut off jeans and old-fashioned yellow rubber gloves, cleaning the oven. She belted out "Walkin' After Midnight" by Patsy Cline. It was not until she leaned back and pulled her head from the stove that she noticed him.

She flung an arm to her chest in shock. "Why must you continue to scare me by sneaking around?"

He ignored her question and sat his brown paper bag on her counter. She stood, removed her gloves, tossed them in the sink, and peeked into the bag. She laughed at what she saw.

"Country?" he inquired.

She tore the red netting off the package and reached into a drawer for a set of kitchen scissors. Two snips and she handed him one of the plastic-encased ice pops.

"Of course. Guys in my unit were obsessed with Patsy, Johnny and Hank. This was before Taylor Swift, thank God."

Her pearl teeth bit down on the plastic and she slurped the blue-dyed ice down.

He couldn't help but smile. They spent the rest of that July 4th cleaning, eating too many ice pops and crooning to old country music.

* * *

**Sixth: "For where our hearts lie. **It is with our heart that we pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

It startled him that she took his heart so forcefully. One day it was buried with Jessica and the next, Joss held it near her own, mocking him in her own way. For a man so in control of his life, he'd lost the one thing he never expected could be retrieved.

John was barely adequate when it came to romantic words. He knew how to charm the panties off many women and quite a few men, but he had never mastered speaking from the heart. He thought of asking Harold for assistance, but that thought was banished almost as soon as it entered his mind.

In the end, there wasn't a restaurant declaration over an expensive bottle of wine or a hot air balloon ride or a trip to Paris. It was simply done by him slipping into her squad car with a hot cup of coffee on a stakeout during the aftermath of a blizzard.

"Yes."

"What?" she asked, taking the cup from him.

"Yes, I'm ready to move on."

"Any lucky ladies?"

"No," he said.

She looked at him in confusion then.

"No lucky ladies, but hopefully a very lucky man." He grinned at her then. Not the grin he used to bait her, but the rare, genuine one he used for times when he wanted her to see the real him.

* * *

**Seventh: "A tribute to our armed forces, for it is through the armed forces that we protect our country and our flag against all enemies, whether they be found within or without the boundaries of our republic."**

Their first trip as an official couple was to Washington D.C.

Between frenzied lovemaking at their hotel and window-shopping at a few strip malls, they made it to the monuments. Oddly enough, it was his first time there.

D.C.'s monuments were strange though. They were scattered throughout several parks like enormous sprinkles of granite glitter.

He ran his hand across some of the names of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall. For a second he wondered about the people not listed, wondered how many people were like him, physical survivors, but warriors who left their souls someplace else.

He turned when Carter grasped his free hand.

She didn't say anything, but they both knew he had mentally traveled somewhere dangerous. She brought him back to her, and he was grateful.

* * *

**Eighth: "A tribute to the one who entered into the valley of the shadow of death, that we might see the light of day, and to honor our mother, for whom it flies on Mother's Day."**

He met her mother on Mother's Day. Vivian Wells was a couple of inches shorter and a shade darker than her daughter. She had wider set eyes and smooth skin that belied her age. However, he saw Joss all over her at the skeptical look she gave him during their greeting.

He had met many people in his lifetime, but this one lady terrified him. And when he realized he loved Joss, she terrified him more. It was clear that Joss held her mother in high regard. He knew Joss made her own decisions, but it wouldn't be a surprise if she factored in her mother's advice when it came to him.

Later, after they left church and were preparing to feast on a homemade meal, Vivian cracked a smile and gave him a wink. He knew he had passed some kind of test. He was positive that that meal was the best one he had eaten in a long time.

* * *

**Ninth: "A tribute to womanhood, for it has been through their faith, love, loyalty and devotion that the character of the men and women who have made this country great have been molded."**

It was not when he was deep inside of her that he was reminded of why he loved her so much. Of course the sex was nice. More than nice really. It was phenomenal. He never imagined sex in his forties would be so much better than sex in his twenties, but then again, he didn't imagine he would ever find someone like Joss either. She knew how to arouse him with her just a whisper of her voice or a look in her eyes.

No, the things that reminded him most of why he loved her was the dimple that peeked out when she smiled, the way her small hand glided into his, the way her arms felt around him when she comforted him the way she curled by his side to warm him, and the way her light citrus perfume brushed against him.

But the thing that impressed him most about her was her mind. She was his tactical equal. She was inquisitive, and sharp, knowing just the right questions that needed to be asked. She pushed his buttons and knew what it took to make him cave. It was infuriating. She was infuriating. He loved it.

* * *

**Tenth: "A tribute to father, for he, too, has given his sons and daughters for the defense of our country since he or she was first born."**

"You would have liked my father," she declared.

He looked at the picture Finch found in her car several years ago. They thought at the time that it was a photo of Taylor's father. It turned out to be a digitally re-mastered image of Terrance Wells in uniform.

"You remind me of him."

They were having a quiet night gazing at photos.

"Grandpa was a bad ass?" Taylor asked from his perch in the chair across from them.

"Yes, grandpa was a bad ass. He was also a sensitive, sweet man." She leaned forward and pecked John on the lips.

Taylor wrinkled his nose at their public display of affection. He had turned into quite a handsome young man, with broad shoulders and a deeper voice that wooed many admirers at college. Still, he came to visit his mom during his breaks.

"I'm sure I am honored to be compared to him," John said. And he was. He was touched more than he admitted to Joss. Not only was he in her life, but also she thought of him as such an inseparable and positive part of her life that sometimes it overwhelmed him. He tried not to let her know just how much her words meant to him.

* * *

**Eleventh: "in the eyes of Hebrew citizens, represents the lower portion of the seal of King David and King Solomon and glorifies, in their eyes, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob."**

"So King Solomon set this up?"

John winced. King Solomon was Joss' sarcastic nickname for Finch when he worked on her last nerve. John knew that Finch and Carter had come a long way in their relationship. King Solomon, a wise ruler found in the Abrahamic faith texts, was hardly the insult compared to what she used to call him. (It took John several years and a bored evening on a children's hospital ward watching a number to discover that "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" was not just an ambiguous title for a nosey, computer whiz.)

Still, when she said it like that…

"He thought it best."

She sighed. "Of course he did. He didn't think to ask me my opinion, I see. Guess that would be too much work after all the spying and hacking."

"Joss," he started.

She shook her head. "Whatever you say, I'm still going to be mad. I like doing things on my own."

John understood the feeling. He might be angrier if he wasn't already accustomed to Harold buying him a place.

"It's nice, I guess."

The house, a huge renovated brick building that sported the latest gadgets and décor was now theirs.

She walked around the spacious room with the floor length windows showing off the city. Beside their bed was a framed copy of their marriage license.

"He said it was a wedding present."

She reentered the kitchen. "He never knows how to just give a toaster, huh?" she asked.

"Well, not _just_ a toaster," he replies, pointing to the high tech device resting on their new countertop. He was sure that the toaster did everything to bread but actually brown it the way they would want.

* * *

**Twelfth: "In the eyes of a Christian citizen, represents an emblem of eternity and glorifies, in their eyes, God the Father, the Son and Holy Ghost."**

He knew she was a devout Christian. She carried around a worn, family Bible that was passed down on her father's side. There was even a copy of the New King James Version wedged between her case of weapons and an old winter coat she stored in her trunk.

However, she wasn't preachy or annoying about her belief. She knew he lost his faith, had it ripped from him piece by piece by Stanton, Snow, the C.I.A. and Jessica's murder. Somehow, he managed to settle back to agnostic. Whether there was a god and whether that possible god was cruel was often in the background of his thoughts.

Either way, when she didn't have a case or wasn't on call, Joss got up on Sunday, kissed him, dressed and went down to a little chapel a couple of blocks away. The building had seen better days, its paint a dull yellow from dirt and rain, but there was a kind pastor there and a surprisingly large number of first responders, firefighters and police officers worshipping there.

One Sunday he rose.

Astonished that he would be up on the day he least received numbers from Finch she asked, "Do you need something?"

"No." He shrugged off the covers and walked over to the closet. "I'm going to church with you," he said.

She said nothing, but a dimple appeared in her silence.

* * *

He opened the door to a somber Finch. The man looked a little green.

"Mr. Reese."

It was the timbre of Harold's voice that struck him.

"What's wrong, Finch?"

"There's been an accident."

John felt his heart pound. "What kind of accident?"

"Joss." Finch paused and John knew. "She didn't make it."

"How? How do you know?" John knew he was going into shock. He felt himself sliding to the floor. He felt himself searching for that cool, calm place he went to wall off and process horrible things. He also knew that Finch wouldn't be there -in person- if he were not absolutely sure.

"I heard it over the radio."

Later, John discovered that it was a hostage situation gone wrong. Fusco had been pinned down, easy pickings for three heavily armed men, and Joss, his brave and adventurous wife, stormed in after her partner.

Two bullets to her chest, but Fusco was alive. He was alive and blaming himself. John couldn't process that, but he knew that Finch was there for the grieving detective.

John called Taylor and they cried. Finch made the funeral arrangements. Taylor wrote the eulogy. John kept his promise not to drink, though he cursed that late night compromise he had made with her. He couldn't look at the casket.

The last fold was complete.

He held out his arms and accepted the flag.

"**In God We Trust"**

* * *

AN: Nila Parsons is loosely based off of Melissa Harris-Perry.

Also, I swear I will write a nice, happy, fluffy piece of these two soon.


End file.
